Where There's Fuego, There's Fire

We're having a little bit of a discipline problem lately. Don't believe me? Here's a few choice moments from recent weeks.

"Ian no haciendo me caso," our Puerto Rican nanny says in her best Spanglish.

I dial my husband at work. "What is 'haciendo me caso'?"

"Ian isn't paying attention to her."

"Oh." I hang up and turn to the offender. "Ian, please pay attention to Irma, OK?"

Ian's look could best be described as that look George Clooney continuously gives to Al Pacino during the "Ocean's Eleven-Twelve-Thirteen" franchise. Smug. You suck at gambling. I got your girl. That kind of look. I might as well have said something like "Ian, could you please locate Osama Bin Laden and Julian Assange and give them both a time out for the next 120 years, OK?" It would have had the same effect.

Then the next week, my husband comes home to find two "frown faces" drawn on a piece of paper above each of our sons' names. The paper is hung to the back of our front door like a "Wanted Dead or Alive" poster. It lists such offenses as: spit out food, rolled under dining table laughing, said 'the party is on' as they ignored her, called her names so bad I won't even put them in this blog. It was a wonder that when I arrived later that night I hadn't found a note from my husband right next to it that said: "I'll see ya. Been real. Going back to the madre patria."

The next morning, I lay into them. Of course "them" means "Ian." Partly because Ian is older but mainly because Julian screams louder and is a general pain in the neck to discipline. Looking ahead to his teenage years, I can only plead one thing to the universe: we're going to need a bigger boat.

"Ian, what's this about?" I ask, showing him the frown face Wanted poster. He gives me the George Clooney.

My inner PsychoMama was starting to go ballistic. My inner PsychoMama had plenty to say that would not only disqualify her for Mother of the Year, but might prompt a neighbor to call Child Services. Are you kidding me with this crap! Do you know how close you are to being grounded until your first pimple? Don't give me that look. I'll glue your eyes open that way. I control your calories. I don't care where you come out on the percentiles. Try me. Fortunately, PsychoMama has a mute button, which is in permanent lockdown. But who knows for how long.

My conversation with Ian gets me nowhere, so I round up all his most precious possessions and hide them for the next week, take away TV, and vow to glare at him as long as my eyes will hold out. He looks only mildly impressed. He asks me for a Fig Newton after breakfast and I say no to that, too. He asks to wear his blue hat instead of black one and I say no. No, I say!! My discipline was starting to strafe like machine gun fire, missing every target but killing some friendlies and creating plenty of collateral damage. I didn't care. This was war.

Then, there was today.

"The maestra says Ian cut a kid's hair," our nanny says.

I'm making mac 'n' cheese in the kitchen when she says this to me. Only I have boycotted Kraft's radioactive version of it and am struggling with my "roux," with which I must blend my "grated cheese" only the problem is that I don't like to "measure" and so my cheese sauce is coming out more like orange play-doh. Dammit. What did she just say?

She sees my dumb look and repeats herself. "The maestra says Ian cut a kid's hair."

I corral Ian into the kitchen. "What is this about?" Ian starts to give me the George Clooney, but I'm holding a heavy stainless steel frying pan and my kid is smarter than he lets on.

"But he asked me to do it. He didn't like long hair. He asked me to cut it off."

"So you did?"

"Uh huh."

"How much did you cut?" (Yes, I'm already preparing the alibi.)

"Just a little."

"Where was it? Would anybody notice?" (This was turning into a Lifetime movie.)

"I don't think so. It was on the side. A little."

I shrug at the nanny. Supposedly I was to receive an email about this, she informs me. I grab my phone off the counter and check. Nothing. I shrug at the nanny again. "Nobody sent me anything."

I turn to Ian, who is finally looking dejected and morose, just the look I had been striving for. Attaboy.

"Here, Ian," I say. "Have a noodle."